I love the lyric, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans". So true that as we plan. life goes on and sometimes, it goes on to the extent that the plans that were being made no longer work. It seems also that life sometimes is happens while the presumed writer is not writing.
Where has the burning desire gone? Where has the "everything seems worth of writing about" gone? Where is the energy? Where is the creative feelings that boiled over every day?
Where has my focus been? On children, on father-in-laws, on work, on trying to find the energy - which I don't have now.
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